


cuffing season

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Coitus Interruptus, Developing Relationship, Handcuffs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, lab partners with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Hermann reaches into the top pocket of his button-up. He pats down his blazer, discarded at the foot of the bed. A feeling of intense dread, mixed with a healthy dose of panic, spreads in the pit of Newt’s stomach.“Newton,” Hermann continues, very, very casual. “Er.” He reaches into both slacks pockets again. “Newton. I don’t suppose you happen to have the, ah, key?”“What do you mean?” Newt says, very, very calm.





	cuffing season

**Author's Note:**

> WOOOOOEEEE so. as anonymously requested:  
> "Prompt on your nsfwtwit about N has to make an emergency presentation but hes handcuffed to bed & they lost the key But his hands are cuffed together so they get him off bed but not uncuffed & N+H arent together yet & theyre trying to present like helpIminlovewithanidiot"
> 
> and boy did i try to deliver. the fastest way to my heart is requesting HIJINKS did you know that

Newt’s not really sure what he’d call his relationship with Hermann at this point. They’re not exactly normal lab partners—normal lab partners don’t have as much sex with each other as they do—but they’re not exactly _friends,_ either—friends don’t shout at each other and drive each other nuts as much as they do. _Professional rivals with benefits_ seems the most apt description. (Unless normal lab partners _do_ fuck a bunch, and Newt’s just being closed-minded. It’d mean he was a terrible lab partner to others in the past.) Whatever they are, Newt’s content with not giving too much of a shit about what Hermann thinks of him, and knowing that Hermann doesn’t give too much of a shit about what Newt thinks of him in return. It works out better for everyone that way. Newt can be a lot less embarrassed about asking Hermann to do something unseemly to him: pulling his hair, or pinning him down, or calling him mean names (Hermann probably enjoys that last one a little too much), or, you know, what they’re doing now.

Hermann’s more than happy to consent to using handcuffs on Newt (fluffy, bright pink, bought online by Newt using a forty-percent-off coupon) probably because it means that, for once, Newt will be forced to remain still and keep his hands to himself. He’s definitely getting a certain kind of _glee_ out of it, a glee that makes Newt think he’s almost definitely fantasized about this before: Newt’s got his back against the headboard as Hermann sits in the vee of his legs, his own legs angled carefully and comfortably, and he’s been sporting a _pretty_ impressive boner for about twenty minutes now. His baggy pants do a terrible job of hiding it.

“Would you prefer them behind your back or at your front?” Hermann says, and clicks one handcuff shut around Newt’s right hand. He waves the other around.

Newt considers. Front might get in the way, and make it hard for Hermann to properly go to town on him. Back means he’s completely at Hermann’s mercy. And isn’t that a thought. “Back is fine,” Newt says.

A small, pleased smile tugs at Hermann’s wide lips; it makes Newt’s stomach twist, all funny. There’s a small indentation on the bottom one, in the shape of Newt’s top two teeth, left there from their furious makeout in the lab that led up to them calling it a day early and fucking off to...well, fuck. Newt likes the look of it. He’d mark up Hermann’s neck, too, if Hermann let him, cover that pale skin in angry purple hickeys that even Hermann’s high collars can’t hide.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Hermann says. He jerks Newt’s arm back a bit less than gently, enough to make Newt wince and very nearly moan, and adds, a bit _too_ disinterested, enough to let Newt know he is actually very, very interested, “To the bed, as well?” He taps the metal bars.

_Really_ at Hermann’s mercy. “Pervert,” Newt says. Hermann’s smile turns wicked. “ _No_ , not to the bed.”

“Are you quite sure?” Hermann says, skimming his fingers up Newt’s thigh. Newt shuts his eyes at the touch, and can’t suppress a full-bodied shiver. Hermann knows exactly what Newt likes, and he sure as hell knows how to exploit this.

“Pretty sure,” Newt stammers out. Then he cracks open one eyelid and forces levity into his voice. “You’d probably ditch me here, anyway. Go back to some paperwork in the _peace and quiet_.”

Hermann snorts, but he bypasses the bedframe entirely when he cuffs Newt’s other hand as Newt requested. He hasn’t taken off Newt’s button-up yet. Newt wonders if he should mention it, but he decides that Hermann probably knows what he’s doing. “How’s this, then, Newton?” Hermann says, sitting back to admire his handiwork. His irises—a pretty brown that Newt’s always liked—are almost completely obscured by his pupils. He’s really into it. “Are you comfortable?”

Newt tests the handcuffs with a few good, hard tugs. Tight enough he won’t be able to slip out or anything, but not tight enough to hurt or bruise. Tight enough that he _does_ feel completely at Hermann’s mercy, exactly like he wanted. Newt’s starting to feel a little warm under his collar. His jeans are feeling a little tighter. “A-okay,” he says. He fidgets and licks his lips. “Hermann,” he says. “Hermann, are you gonna—”

Hermann leans forward and grazes his teeth across Newt’s neck, and then works Newt’s tie open with his long, elegant fingers. Newt’s top few buttons follow next. Then his belt buckle. Then the button fly of his jeans. Hermann does everything methodically, even in bed. Especially in bed.

It drives Newt _nuts._

“Hermann,” Newt whines.

Hermann nips at the skin of his throat, enough for it to sting, and scolds, “Be patient.”

He stops unbuttoning Newt’s shirt about halfway down and dips under the fabric to roll the pad of his thumb over Newt’s right nipple. Then he begins on the left. Newt squirms, and whines again. “ _Hermann_.”

Hermann raps Newt’s left hip sharply. “Don’t make me gag you, too,” he murmurs against his skin.

They’d used a gag the other night in the lab—Newt’s tie, balled up and shoved into his mouth to keep him from squeaking too loudly as Hermann took him over his desk, and it’d been awesome—but they haven’t in a bedroom setting yet. It’s almost as hot an idea as the handcuffs. And combined— “Yeah,” Newt gasps, nodding frantically, “yeah, yeah, do that—”

“I’m _not_ doing that, Newton,” Hermann says, noticeably amused.

“Then hurry the fuck up already,” Newt snaps. “I’m losing my boner.” Hermann scowls, narrows his eyes at him over the rims of his little round glasses, and pinches Newt’s right nipple _hard_. Newt yelps, and his fingers scrabble at nothing. “ _Jesus_. Okay, ow—”

Hermann pulls off his blazer. Carefully, the button of each cuff of his neatly-pressed shirt is popped open; carefully, each sleeve is rolled up, exposing pale forearms with a sparse smattering of hair, delicate wrists that Newt would love nothing more than to kiss. Hermann leans back in and takes Newt’s earlobe between his teeth, worrying at it gently before pressing a messy kiss at the skin of his neck instead. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he orders.

Newt obeys, squeaking when Hermann rocks up against him, slowly, teasingly. “Hermann,” Newt repeats, tugging on the handcuffs, “Hermann, dude, fuck me already—”

“Mm.” Hermann grabs handfuls of Newt’s lovehandles and continues to rock up. He nips at his neck. “Manners, Newton.”

“ _Please_ ,” Newt says.

“Good boy,” Hermann says, a touch sarcastic, and, without warning, reaches down and yanks Newt’s jeans and boxers down to his knees in one go.

Newt barely has time to react to the sudden rush of _cold_ air on his dick before Hermann is taking him in his hand and curling his fingers around him. He thumbs over Newt’s slit at the same time Newt, mouth hanging open, clunks his head back against the wall. This is great. This is awesome. “Do you want more?” Hermann murmurs.

“Uh-huh,” Newt moans, and rolls his hips weakly into Hermann’s grasp.

Hermann slicks his hand with Newt’s precome and starts to pump him. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted, his hair sticking to his forehead. Newt can hear him breathing: loud, rapid, harsh. “Tell me what you want, Newton,” he says, low.

Something about Hermann—uptight, upright Hermann Gottlieb—in disarray really _does it_ for Newt. He babbles something out, incoherent, and Hermann drags his thumb under the head of Newt’s dick agonizingly slow. Newt strains against the handcuffs, and his head hits the wall again. He wants Hermann to just grab his waist and _manhandle_ him onto his dick already. “God damn it, Hermann, _please_.”

Hermann kisses under Newt’s ear again and unzips his own slacks, giving Newt a tantalizing peek of his _incredibly_ sexy tighty-whiteys and small trail of dark pubic hair. He’s just reaching for their usual bottle of lube—placed by Newt on the nightstand in eager anticipation that morning—when there’s a knock on the door.

Newt and Hermann both freeze.

Then Newt relaxes a bit. It’s definitely a mistake. Hermann is the only person who ever stops by Newt’s room. No one else has any reason to. In a few seconds, once Newt doesn’t answer, whoever’s at the door will realize they’ve got the wrong bunk and move on. Newt voices this to Hermann. “Probably got the room number wrong,” he whispers. He wiggles his hips. “C’mon, put your dick in me. I’m horny.”

“You’re always so charming,” Hermann whispers back.

They startle as there’s another knock. And even worse: a loud, insistent-sounding, “Dr. Geiszler?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Newt says. “What’d I do?”

More knocks.

“Dr. Geiszler,” the person at the door repeats, “Dr. Geiszler, are you there? It’s important.”

Hermann shuts his eyes. “Bugger,” he says.

He slips off the bed and grabs his cane in one fluid motion and clacks, furiously, over to the door for Newt, seeing as Newt is a little—preoccupied. Before Hermann can even try to unlock it, though, Newt hisses out “XYZ!”

“What?” Hermann hisses back.

“XYZ,” Newt says.

“What are you talking about?”

“Dr. Geiszler?” the person at the door says.

“Examine your zipper,” Newt says. “It’s, you know, slang. XYZ. _X_ -amine.” Hermann stares at him blankly. “It means your fly is down,” Newt amends, with a sigh. He knows that Hermann existed as a child at one point in his life—he’s seen the dusty, stiff Gottlieb family photograph sitting on Hermann’s desk—but, sometimes, it’s really fucking hard to believe that Hermann didn’t just... _pop_ into existence as a fully-formed frumpy bastard who says things like _by jove!_ while he’s jizzing down Newt’s throat but falters at completely normal slang.

“Why didn’t you just say that instead of nonsense?” Hermann says, scowling, and quickly does up his fly. “You would’ve saved both of us a lot of trouble.”

“I thought it’d be _faster_ , jackass,” Newt says. “Hey, do you know what F-U stands for?”

“Horrible,” Hermann says, “immature, little man—”

The knocking at the door turns more aggressive. Newt would throw a pillow at Hermann if he could. He just sort of wiggles his legs angrily instead. “Oh my _God_ ,” he finally bursts out. “Can you just get that? Please?”

Hermann sniffs. He pushes the door open a crack and sticks his head out, probably with that same suspicious squint he always gives Newt when Newt knocks on his door any time past eight in the evening. Belatedly, Newt realizes he should’ve told Hermann to do up his sleeves, too, as well as his pants; Hermann Gottlieb’s bare arms are even more scandalous than a flash of underwear with an obvious bulge. Maybe even more scandalous than Newt with his whole ass out. They practically advertise he’d been seconds from getting laid.

“ _Yes_?” Hermann says.

“Oh,” whoever’s at the door says. Sounds young. LOCCENT intern, maybe. Tendo mentioned having some new minions to boss around. “Hi, Dr. Gottlieb. Uh. Is Dr. Geiszler there?”

Hermann pauses. He closes the door shut another fraction, enough to make sure Newt—mostly naked, sporting a boner, handcuffed on the bed, and craning his neck around none-too-discreetly to see who’s there—is completely hidden from view before he answers. “...No.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “What are you doing in his room?”

“Research,” Hermann says, vaguely.

“Okay,” the intern says. “Well, if you see Dr. Geiszler, can you let him know we need you two in the conference room ASAP? Emergency meeting. Marshal Pentecost requested you both specifically.”

Newt can’t help his groan. He and Hermann haven’t banged in almost an entire week. “Oh, _man_. Emergency meeting?”

“Shut up,” Hermann says over his shoulder.

“Is that Dr. Geiszler?” the intern says.

Hermann turns, guiltily, back to the intern. “Er,” he says. “Yes.”

“So he is here?”

“Did I say no before?” Hermann says. “I meant yes. He is. Slip of the tongue.”

There’s a long pause. “Okay,” says the intern. “Uh. Please just be at the meeting in ten minutes.”

Hermann shuts the door. Newt groans again, a little louder. “God _damn_ it,” he says. He wiggles his hips again. “Okay, ten minutes. We can work with that.” Hermann's always...easily overwhelmed, anyway. If Newt moves the right ways and says the right stuff he bet he could get Hermann to come in half that. “C’mon, put your dick in me. Put it in me, baby. Let's do this.”

Hermann makes a face and shakes his head. “The prep _alone_ would take ten minutes,” he says.

“Blowjob, then.” Newt quits wiggling his hips and, instead, lifts them to display his dick tantalizingly. “You can pull my hair. I know you dig that.”

A small groan rises in the back of Hermann’s throat, significantly less frustrated and way _hornier_ than Newt’s series of groans. He takes a heavy step towards Newt’s bed. Then he stops and stiffens his back. “ _No_ , Newton.” But his expression softens a little. “After the meeting.”

“After the meeting,” Newt agrees with a sigh. He’ll probably be horny for the entire fucking thing, but at least Hermann will make up for it when they get back. He'll just distract himself by playing footsie or something. “ _Okay_.” He shimmies his shoulders. “Get me out of the cuffs already.”

Hermann nods. “Yes. Of course.” He settles onto the edge of the bed. He reaches into the right pocket of his slacks. He frowns. He reaches into the left. His frown deepens.

“Something wrong?” Newt says.

“No,” Hermann says, quickly. Too quickly. Newt narrows his eyes. Hermann reaches into the top pocket of his button-up. He pats down his blazer, discarded at the foot of the bed. A feeling of intense dread, mixed with a healthy dose of panic, spreads in the pit of Newt’s stomach.

“Newton,” Hermann continues, very, very casual. “Er.” He reaches into both slacks pockets again. “Newton. I don’t suppose you happen to have the, ah, key?”

“What do you mean?” Newt says, very, very calm.

“Well,” Hermann says. “I don’t appear to have the—key. For—” He gestures at Newt. “The handcuffs. Well—actually—” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m certain _you_ had it last, come to think of it.”

“How the fuck would I have it last, Hermann?” Newt shrieks. “I’m _handcuffed_.” He kicks his legs furiously, knocking a pillow off the bed in the process, and continues shrieking. “Oh my God, I hate you! I can’t _believe_ this.” He starts wiggling his arms, too, for good measure, hoping maybe the process will free one of his wrists, and he can just keep one hand in his pocket for the meeting. Instead, it just makes him lose his balance; he teeters, and flops, face-first, into Hermann’s lap.

“Calm _down_ , Newton,” Hermann chides. Like Hermann didn't lose the _fucking_ keys and Newt’s the one at fault here. Like Hermann wouldn’t be going absolutely ballistic if he was trapped in a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs instead. “It’s hardly the end of the world.” He presses one hand to the back of Newt’s head, and pats his hair soothingly. Newt grumbles. “We’ll figure something out.”

There’s not enough time to try to jimmy open the lock _or_ run down to the lab to get one of Newt’s handsaws (and they’re covered in toxic kaiju gunk anyway), so they resort to other methods. After righting him, Hermann does up Newt’s boxers, jeans, and shirt for him, gives up on tying his tie after four failed attempts (“It’s a ridiculous scrap of fabric, anyway,” he sniffed, and tossed it to the floor), and pulls Newt’s socked feet onto his lap one at a time to lace his boots. Then Hermann puts his parka over it all and zips it up.

“Er,” Hermann says, not meeting Newt's eyes. “Perfect.”

Newt’s arms are now doubly trapped, both by handcuffs and the tight sides of the oversized coat. He feels like a giant olive-green marshmallow. If he trips, he’s toast, and he’s tempted to take Hermann down with him. “I really hate you,” he declares.

 

They make it to the conference room with barely thirty seconds to spare: Hermann, a button skipped on his shirt and one cuff still undone, breathing hard, cane clacking wildly, Newt, flushed bright red and sweating and half-waddling like an angry, graceless penguin. Pentecost greets them with a nod and a “Gentlemen”, thankfully choosing not to comment on Newt’s bizarre appearance, though his brow does furrow, momentarily, in obvious confusion. Hermann nearly falls over himself to salute in time.

“Suck-up,” Newt whispers as they take their seats, and, under the table, Hermann whaps his shin neatly with the end of his cane.

It’s really hot in that coat. _Really_ hot. And Newt’s wrists hurt, especially when he leans back in his chair, and the back presses the metal (fluffy though the covering is) into his skin. Still. They can’t be needed for much longer. They’ll make it back to Newt’s room, and Hermann will undo Newt’s shirt and jeans and tie again, and he’ll push Newt onto the bed, and then they’ll kiss for a little, rub up on each other a little more, and then Hermann will— “Newton,” Hermann hisses. “ _Newton_.” There’s a sharp poke in Newt’s side—one of Hermann’s bony-ass fingers—and Newt startles, his glasses sliding dangerously down to the tip his nose.

“What?” he says, blinking at the vague Hermann-colored blur to his right.

Hermann pushes Newt’s glasses up for him, and, sight restored, Newt becomes acutely aware of the fact that all eyes in the conference room are on him.

“The Marshal was saying,” Hermann says, through gritted teeth, “that he’d like us to present our latest research. From the report we submitted last night.”

Newt scrawled out his half of the report in a Red Bull-fueled haze and fell asleep at his desk immediately afterwards. He remembers maybe ten-percent of it. He didn’t even proofread it. “Sure,” he says to the group, voice high. “Sure, no problem.”

“Standing up,” Hermann adds, under his breath, just loud enough for Newt to hear, and that deep chasm of dread reopens with a vengeance when Newt recognizes the chart pulled up on the holoprojector at the head of the table to be the one he and Hermann shouted at each other about for a week. No wonder their presence is mandatory.

“Of course,” Newt says. “Sure.” Hermann pushes himself to his feet. Newt does not move; he stares, piteously, at Hermann instead, lower lip stuck out, until Hermann rolls his eyes and hauls Newt up by the oversized hood. Newt feels, strangely, like a kitten being picked up by the scruff of its neck by a very angry cat in very dorky glasses. “Thanks,” Newt mouths, as they shuffle awkwardly to the head of the table by the display. Play it cool.

Hermann’s research constitutes the first half of the report, so Newt steps aside and lets him take lead for a bit while occasionally nodding, like he’s paying attention, and not, in fact, fixating on every single bead of sweat that rolls down his back, every single twinge of pain in his wrist. Maybe he’ll be so sweaty by the end of this the handcuffs will just slip right off. 

“Geiszler,” Hansen says, frowning at him. “You feeling alright?”

Sweat is rolling down Newt’s forehead. He's swaying in place a little. He can feel himself flushing. For the second time that day, all the eyes in the room are on him. “He’s fine,” Hermann jumps in quickly.

“Just—a little hot,” Newt says, and then, because that probably raises even more questions about the parka, corrects, “I mean sick.” His own visual data—a 3D rendering of a single kaiju claw that'd been the only intact tissue salvaged from the last attack—pops up on the projector. A welcome distraction. “Oh, great,” Newt says. “This is mine. Herm—Dr. Gottlieb, do you mind—”

Hermann steps forward and enlarges the image, but focuses at the wrong spot for Newt’s corresponding data. Newt sighs. “No,” he says, “to the left—” Hermann zooms back out, but lands _too_ much to the left this time. “Over a little—”

“Over which way?” Hermann says.

“Right.”

“You just said left.”

“I know,” Newt says, “but now it’s right.”

There’s a vein popping, noticeably, in Hermann’s forehead. He inches the image to the right.

“Perfect,” Newt says. He shuffles over closer. “Okay. So. See this bit here—Hermann, could you—”

Hermann attempts to shift the image again; he must touch the wrong thing, because it vanishes entirely instead. Then something happens that Newt had not remotely, in a million years, anticipated happening: Hermann starts giggling. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, not stopping even as he looks mortified at himself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“ _Dude_ ,” Newt says, and Hermann grips the edge of the table for support as he only giggles harder. Newt begins to grin. This _is_ all pretty ridiculous. “Hermann. C’mon, man.”

“Permission,” Hermann stammers, straightening his shoulders and looking the Marshal dead in the eyes, “permission to be excused. Sir. Please. Dr. Geiszler—I should take him home. Er. He’s very unwell.” He wheezes out another giggle.

They're excused, and pretty quickly. Newt has a feeling Pentecost just can’t be bothered to figure out whatever bullshit Newt and Hermann have gotten themselves into today. Besides, they made it through their research. Mostly.

They collapse in a little wheezing, giggling lump on Newt’s bed when they get back, Newt with the parka half-unzipped, Hermann lying overtop him with his face pressed to Newt’s neck. Eventually, Newt manages to calm down enough to speak. “Okay, can you _actually_ get me out of this shit now?”

Hermann kisses him. Hermann’s kissed him before, and Hermann's kissed him earlier today, even, but this time it feels different. Newt and Hermann's kisses are always so violent, so aggressive, so  _angry_ , extensions of their fights in the lab and _always_ prelude to sex. Clashing teeth and bitten tongues. This one is gentle. Nothing more than a feathery brushing of lips. It’s off center, at the corner of Newt’s mouth, and Newt feels Hermann smiling all the way through it.

It affects Newt more than he cares to admit. His head spins.

“I’ll look for it,” Hermann promises in a murmur. He tries to struggle into a sitting position.

“Wait,” Newt says, and chases after Hermann's lips. “Wait, Hermann, wait—”

They kiss again, the same soft kiss as before. Hermann hums happily into it. One of his hands slides up through Newt’s sweaty hair. “We probably looked like such dumbasses back there,” Newt mumbles.

Hermann laughs, and Newt catches sight of a broad, toothy smile, tiny, charming wrinkles at the corners of Hermann’s eyes. Newt doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen Hermann smile like that before. The sight makes his stomach twist strangely. “I don’t expect we’ll be called back for many meetings in the future,” Hermann says. His thumb rubs at the shell of Newt’s ear; the smile grows into something warm and fond. “For the better, perhaps.”

Newt wonders if Hermann can feel how fast his heart is beating. “Key,” he croaks out, before he can shove his foot in his mouth and say something _really_ dumb, like _your eyelashes are making me dizzy_ or _I kind of like you for reasons beyond just sex, who'd've thought?_

“Mm,” Hermann says, but he grazes a few more kisses along Newt’s jaw (Newt shuts his eyes, and his mouth drops open) before he drags the zipper of the parka all the way down. Then he pauses. “Newton,” he says.

“Uh-huh?”

Hermann slips his fingers into the top pocket of Newt’s shirt. There’s a small jingling noise. Newt opens his eyes, blearily, to see the handcuff keys dangling a few inches from his face.

“Oops,” Newt says.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at hermannsthumb, where i post ficlets, and twitter at hermanngaylieb, and nsfw 18+ twitter (where i post about dumb concepts like this) at hermanngayszler!!
> 
> my semester is almost over so after that...be prepared to tremble at my completely NOT erratic posting schedule


End file.
